01 October 2009

Niagara of Memory xi., Drift


This bright memory.

A small child
dressed for the cold
stands beside a drift,
watching his father shovel.
 
The child uses mittened hands
to carve a space in the drift.
It becomes a cave of sorts.
 
The child lays himself down
into the cave, finding warmth
as he pulls the snow inward,

shutting out the wind and sky.
 
Light, coloured by snow 
passes through the walls of his cave,
a flood of 
sparks, green and blue.
 
The arms of the father
enfold as he is lifted

from the snow,
cold, near senseless.


The cold is white
that blankets the heart
and steals all colour away.
The cold.

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